Erosion Thus Devotion
by horror.jpg
Summary: IF YOU HAVEN'T WATCHED THE 2019 JOKER FILM, BOOKMARK THIS FOR LATER. Arthur's mind has nearly deteriorated completely. While medication was no longer an option anymore either way, the lack of is revealing more than he can handle. His mother is a monster and his short lived lover never existed. He knows now he can't even trust his own mind. —But what of her?


Ever reluctant to accept the reality around him, denial a constant resort—all the same frustration. Heartbreak. Humiliation. This world is so cruel, it loves to kick you while you're down again, and again until you're nothing but a numbed mass. His meds were dwindling—there wasn't a use any longer to gobble them up as if he had a prescription anymore; no longer had he the basic right of mental help. He'd have nowhere to procure refills, as much needed as they were. There was no point to bother taking another pill at this point. If he was going to stop, it would be by his own choice—not because this shithole of a city had stomped his spirit yet again. A sad, desperate attempt at feeling like one had any control in this rodent infested societal trash heap; the only way to feel as though you have any say here, in Arthur's shoes—and the results felt wildly amazing. Until now, upon yet another cruel wake-up call.

One he could have never prepared himself for, something he could never foreseen. His short lived love which never existed; her beautiful face, the comfort he felt with her, how relatable she was—all a figment of imagination. _He should have known._ Everything so good in his life as of sudden late, all revealing itself to be nothing short of his sick mind at play yet again, only worse. Without medication, he was becoming the same delirious mess Penny was. The only thing left for him at this point, was the Murray show; **the mouse trap.** But it's okay. If his career and himself were to go out, it must rock the masses. It's tiring being battered by the unfair reality of life in general, and Gotham specifically—not just mental and emotionally, but physically too. He's fed up. He's tired.

He had to escape. It was too much. Again he found himself fleeing. To where, he hadn't a clue. So again, he finds himself in the confines of a rundown, gritty bathroom. Stalls riddled with graffiti, beat up, mirrors to reflect the entirety of himself, and—a young woman. _A young woman?_

She sits there, calm as ever, albeit mildly disgruntled at the nervous wreck of a disheveled man who's given her a lackluster scare—one which only musters affront. _This was Gotham after all._ Her appearance might not tell it, but she is well seasoned in the shit and scum Gotham has to offer; _poverty-saturated_ Gotham to be specific. Her frame is dainty, but she looks to feed herself better than he ever could. Her hair array, mimicking the clear deterioration of her _own_ mind; wracked with tangles and stray, mangled tresses, yet her irises are full. Those autumn-rot hues are aware of the harsh reality; he ought to recognize that swifter than anyone else, even if it's only on a subconscious level. Her roots are of the same autumn wracked tone, but her hair is black as night; as her sleeveless little dress adorning a lacy mesh chest and collar, and her boots. Somehow those shredded fishnet tights tied together her entire messy, flower in a blanket of garbage ensemble.

By the look of her hand before her chin, lighter primed and other hand just adrift from taking the freshly lit cancer stick snug between her lips, inky eyeliner trailing down to her jaw, Arthur had just interrupted what looked to be a much needed cigarette break. There was a tiredness in her eyes which felt too real; awfully familiar. But the vague irritation behind them serves as a wake up call. _What does anyone do in a situation like this?_

"I am off the clock. Find my number on the door, and be patient, if you need relief so bad."Without another glance his way, she draws—long and deeply, lids melting shut as the nicotine does it's thing. Her form relaxes a bit; she leans back, head rests upon the glass behind herjust a tad whilst hand re-positions to accommodate the change in form."You'll regret trying to have me sooner,"

It becomes apparent to Arthur she must at least be of the exact age requirement to smoke.

"Ehrm—n-no, I'm ... sorry,_ I-I just,_ ehm..."A hoarse cough meant to shoo the oncoming fit, crackles; more laughter strains itself out.

And just like that, he can feel it coming. An insatiable, uncontrollable need to laugh. It sputters out; he tries desperately _not _to give in, as he tries so helplessly every time the attacks come on. The funny look reminiscent of the disturbance he gave her just a moment ago returns—it only furthers the anxiety, prompting the laugh to only get worse. He shakes his head when he comes—trying _so hard_ to convey _his own_ embarrassment, his sorrow for this behavior he can't control. The display, the sounds coming from him prove much too disturbing for her to sit idly and enjoy this cigarette in peace, pushes her to take the tobacco stick between index and middle fingers; her lips part and her brows start to furrow a bit. _God, _does the uncomfortable stare flare him up; he's driven to the point of no return, doubling over and _all._ He turns away; he can't face such eyes. Next thing he knows, he overhears _rustling_. Much like the panicked searching one goes through their back for—looking anxiously for some means of self defense. Though the last he wanted to see was his suspicions ever correct as always (despite how badly he wished for once his luck would turn around—he _knew_ his life was doomed of nothing but misery), he _does_ whip around—only to be met with both sound and sight of her, now with steel zippo in hand, along with yet another cigarette in hand; box in the other. It's contents almost drained. Her look back to it's resting dreary state, albeit as mellow as someone carrying her aura could be.

"Do you smoke? —because you seem to need one as badly as I."Her expression might hold no ounce of compassion, but actions held as much weight as words,—being the unfortunately, blissfully ignorant gullible fool he somehow managed to be all this time, up to this point.

Arthur hadn't noticed the way his fit subsided. _Like scaring hiccups away._He almost forgets a response is due.

He cannot muster words, but allow his hands to rest aimlessly, desperately upon his own torso, wryly grabbing at horribly wrinkled fabrics; tranced by this surreal display. It washes him with a wave of relief unmatched, yet he's wracked with apprehension. How can he ever know what's real and what's not, now? Nevertheless, he finds himself slowly, but ever surely relaxing—as much as he can, what with muscles strained, surging with unprocessed feeling. With time, with what seemed an eternity, he creeps into her offer, picking the stick from her fingers. And then the lighter—or he would, if she hadn't snatched it from his grasp ever swiftly. It's natural to expect worse to come by now, but again he is fooled by a simple string of words any sensible person ought to understand.

"_My lighter._ Only I handle it."Thus flint wheel is struck, matching a flame."Once more. _Try again._"


End file.
